


From America With Love

by scribblemetimbers



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen, Humor, In which they go on vacation and Steve kind of forgets that people can be bilingual, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemetimbers/pseuds/scribblemetimbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just really wanted to say 'You look very nice'! THAT WAS ALL. </p>
<p>Steve should really keep in mind that going out of good old American soil does not mean people can't possibly know English.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From America With Love

Arbat Street in Moscow is beautiful at night, alive with twinkling lights from the streetlamps and the thousands of vendors in kiosks and souvenir shops alike enthusiastically hawking their wares to awestruck tourists. The winds were sharp and cutting, and somewhere to his left he can hear drunken, merry conversation in a dozen languages – fluid French and rapid-fire Japanese and heavy, guttural Russian – from numerous bars and restaurants.

Steve Rogers might appreciate it just a tad bit more if he wasn’t so _damn cold_.

He thought himself pretty immune to cold. He’s a _New Yorker_ , goddammit, and they were a bunch that took obnoxious pride in their ability to withstand Winterfell-levels of temperature and silently judged California for its cheerful, sunny weather.

He was so _wrong._

“I can’t feel my nose,” Steve says mournfully, rubbing his hands together and shifting on his feet. He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. “Sam, I think I’m getting frostbite.”

Beside him, Sam Wilson snorts, his breath coming out in puffs of white. “I think mine broke off five minutes ago.”

It’s January, and it’s the last day of their well-deserved Christmas vacation right before their last semester in university, a trip to Russia that impossibly came through because Natasha, the third member of their group, is a native with a large apartment and an even larger bank account. And connections. She’s their unofficial tour guide, which has been so helpful because she’s ten times better than any packaged tour, knowing all the ins and outs of every tourist trap and getting tickets even for the places that are decidedly _not_ for the public. It did not help assuage their classmates’ theories that she was secretly a mafia and/or royal heiress, which— well, it’s a claim that she never did address.

Sam’s been geeking out over the food and the architecture, taking a dozen pictures and updating his not-so secret travel/foodie blog. Steve gives him shit for it, but he has absolutely no ammo because he dragged the both of them to every museum he can find and made them wait for _hours_ while he ogled and sketched.

The both of them have already finished buying their respective souvenirs, but Natasha’s still apparently hunting for the tackiest, cheesiest souvenirs available. Nevermind that she’s a native.

“S-Steve,” Sam says through chattering teeth. He’s hugging his purchases like it could shield him from the frigid wind. Steve valiantly suppresses the urge to say that, with his thick mittens and his fluffy jacket-scarf combination and big oversized earmuffs, he looks like a particularly technicolored snowman. “Steve,” he tries again, “I think I’m dying.”

“Sam, don’t be overdramatic,” Natasha’s husky voice admonishes from behind, making them both jump. “It’s just a little wind, guys.” _  
_

They both turned around to give her disbelieving stares.

She just raises a silently judging eyebrow, comfortable in her thin scarf and light parka. Then, she raises her new purchases and then gives them a small grin. “What do you think?” Natasha asks, in lieu of further mocking their mortal weaknesses. She’s holding two traditional Russian _ushanka_ hats, but one was a blindingly bright golden and red while the other was a garish purple.

“Is that for Barton?” Sam asks, delighted, cold momentarily forgotten.

“And for Stark,” Natasha says, because she’s a little shit.

“That’s hideous,” Steve says incredulously, even a little in awe because _holy shit they’re really ugly_ , poking at the brightly colored fur. Then again, Clint unironically wears the custom-made boxers they gave him for his birthday as a gag gift, the one with his _face_ on it. Tony’s basically neon colors in human form.

“It’s perfect,” Natasha preens, and she deftly puts them back inside the paper bag. A tiny, trilling noise suddenly from her pockets. She fishes it out and reads the text message.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Natasha announces then, tucking her phone back in her pocket. Steve’s pretty sure that’s a code word for ‘I have to shank someone in the alleyway’. From Sam’s expression, he’s also pretty sure they’re both on the same wavelength. Natasha points to the two of them. “You two,” she barks. “Don’t move. I’ll be fast.”

“Not a problem,” Steve says dryly, making Sam laugh. Natasha flips them both off, rolling her eyes, before lightly jogging to the bathroom.

There’s about 3 seconds of silence before Sam turns to him, pointing somewhere behind Steve. “I spy a coffee shop.”

“Way ahead of you,” Steve says, grinning, already running. The two of them shot down the streets, arms laden with plastic bags. When they burst through the café’s doors, the heat and the warm, welcoming smell of brewing coffee almost made them both moan.

They were obviously not the only tourists victimized by the Russian winter, because the place was quite full, if quiet, as if everyone was recuperating from the cold and the gift-hunting. They both took stock of the surroundings as they ventured further inside. The interior was cozy and gave a warm, earthy fill. One wall was all bricks, and the shelves looked antique but sturdy, most containing books but a few featuring a series of charming matryoshka dolls. Soft yellow lights illuminate the burnished countertops and tables, which were surrounded by either comfy couches or wooden stools. Combined with the cheerful chatter of patrons, the whole place exuded a cheerful, charming atmosphere. Steve itches for his sketchbook.

Sam, the nerd, has apparently recovered from frostbite and abandoned all pretenses of being cool, already busy taking pictures with his phone, writing notes on his little notebook. Steve wants to rib him for it, but he then spies a family getting up from their table. He’s about the head towards it when a loud laugh draws his attention to the front.

From the back, a man emerges, carrying a tray of delicious-looking cupcakes. His head is tilted towards the back, presumably towards whoever made him laugh, so all he can see is a messy bun of brown hair and the strong line of his neck, stark against the lights. There’s mirth in his voice when he replies to the person he’s talking to in rapid-fire Russian, the hard-edged consonants somehow flowing together so smoothly it makes Steve cant his head and listen more intently, and when he laughs again it sends a little shiver down Steve’s spine.

The barista turns around, and Steve catches a glimpse of smiling eyes and widely grinning lips before he bends to put the cupcakes inside the display.

As if by their own accord, Steve’s feet move, and by the time the other man straightens out Steve’s already at the counter. The barista is all broad shoulders and well-defined arms (one of which, Steve absently notes, is made of metal.) and he’s wearing no name tag at all. Up close, Steve is presented with a stubbled jawline and red, red lips and eyes that are ice-cold blue, which was almost hilarious because they were so _playful_.

It takes a while before he realizes the barista is looking at him expectantly. To Steve’s embarrassment, the small professional smile on his face is rapidly turning into a smirk. “Oh, I’m so sorry I spaced out there for a min—wait,” Steve says abruptly, and slaps a hand to his forehead. “Shit, Russian, right –“

Steve valiantly tries to repress the blush rising on his face and wracks his brain for the basic phrases Natasha browbeat into their heads during the flight. “Ahh. добрый вечер! У вас есть .... uhhh…Кофе? черный. черный кофе?” Steve inwardly groans. Even to his own ears, he sounds _terrible_

_Smooth move, Rogers._

To his surprise, the barista’s professional demeanor disappears and a mischievous grin splits his lips. “Aх! турист!” He cocks his head and gives Steve a once over, tapping his lips, the metallic sheen of his fingers reflecting the lights above. “Американский?”

Well, that word’s familiar enough to jolt Steve back to reality. Thank god for hyper and extremely fiery history professors. “Yeah. Yeah! I’m a tourist. Американский турист,” Steve stumbles, vigorously nodding his head. “извините,” he says lamely, wincing, because he figures he might as well apologize for linguistically slaughtering the other man’s native tongue.

The other man waves his hands in the air, as though to banish his apology. And then he claps his hands “Так! Кофе, да?” he says, raising his eyebrows. At Steve’s assent, he claps his hands together and nods decisively. He turns around to head to the monstrous machines lining the wall, but not before giving Steve a wink and saying, in such laughably exaggerated accented English that he made Steve laugh: “Welcome to Russia!”

Steve can’t help but be charmed.

_Fuck, he’s so screwed._

He’s so busy staring at the barista’s—well, _everything_ – that he didn’t even notice Sam sidling up to him, not until he feels a vicious poke to his ribs that makes him yelp. “Oh,” Sam says slyly, wiggling his eyebrows, because his face is apparently movable now. “I see you’ve started appreciating the sights without me.”

“I am _ordering,”_ Steve says defensively, crossing his arms and turning to face him.

“Horribly, might I add,” Sam replies.

“ _Excuse you_. You’re Russian is just as bad as mine!”

…Which is true. Their crash course on the plane ended with Natasha drinking out of a bottle in a rare fit of despair. It was apparently so bad that the old lady sitting in front of them turned around, shot them an umimpressed look, and said something to Natasha in raspy, solemn Russian. “What’d she say?” they asked once the women stopped conversing. To which Natasha says: “She says you guys suck balls.”

“Yeah,” Sam concedes shamelessly. “But I _do_ know how to say ‘Hello, I think you look really nice’.”

“Natasha didn’t teach us that,” Steve says, confused. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the barista step over to their side, a little bit behind Steve. He can hear drawers opening and the clink of metal, so Steve assumes he must be looking for tissues and coffee sleeves while the coffee brews.

Sam shrugs. “Nah, she didn’t. Darcy did, though.” He holds out his hand and starts ticking off fingers. “She also taught me ‘You’re hella attractive’, ‘Your everything is bamslamming perfect‘ and ‘Can I get yo numbah?’ – yes, that’s the way she said them, I’m not even kidding—so you can pick what you want me to teach you.” He grins. Then, he rubs a finger on his chin, leaning against the counter and one hand on his hips. “Although, I think the last three _may_ get you shanked if you fail to deliver.”

“Sam!” Steve hisses furiously, elbowing him. “Everyone from here to _Australia_ can hear you!”

“And you told me he doesn’t speak English!” Sam says, gesturing to the man in question, who’s now fiddling with one of the machines lining the wall. Still, it wasn’t a very big space, and he and Sam weren’t exactly _quiet._

“But it’s rude!”

“We’re tourists,” Sam points out again.

“He’s still right there!”

“Steve,” Sam says patiently, waving a hand around to encompass their whole situation. “We are so obviously tourists it’s not even funny. We’re wearing about 700 more layers of clothing than all the people here in this shop. A coffee shop in _Arbat street_ , to be exact.” He pauses, looking between them. Realization dawns on his face. “Also, holy shit, we’re both somehow wearing red… white… and blue. _Wow,_ okay, we may be more patriotic than we thought.”

“We did _not—“_ Steve stops, taking in their outfits. By some unfathomable reason, the both of them were wearing blue and white down jackets, just in different patterns… and a red scarf. He casts a surreptitious glance around. 90% of the patrons were wearing black or a very very dark grey. We’re like flamingoes in a sea of ravens!” Steve hisses, dismayed. “Natasha didn’t say anything!”

There was a choked laugh from somewhere, but Steve was too busy staring at their outfits and processing that bit of trivia to pay attention. “And Natasha didn’t say anything!” Steve was so betrayed.

“I just realized she may have,” Sam says, tugging at his clothes. “But I think it was delivered through subtle judgement. Our eardrums were too frozen to hear it.”

“He was laughing when I ordered coffee,” Steve groans, clutching his clothes like he wants to rip them off.

Sam pats him on the back consolingly. “At least you made him laugh. I bet he smiles real nice.”

As one, both of them turn to glance surreptitiously at the barista, who’s now back behind the counter. He’s busy capping Steve’s beverage and putting it inside a sleeve. Short wisps of hair have escaped from his bun, framing his face, and a distractingly longer strand is curled just beneath his left cheek. There’s a small half-smile playing on his face, and Steve can say in the privacy of his own mind that hell fucking yes, that is a very nice sight indeed.

“He does look nice,” Steve admits quietly, a little bit wistfully, because they were leaving tomorrow and the timing kind of sucks.

Sam slaps him upside the head, making Steve squawk in surprise. “None of that!” Sam says sternly. “Nat’s gonna track the chip she planted on us or something and come here any minute now. We got this!”

He instinctively blanches, somber mood momentarily forgotten because Natasha has a penchant for showing her love and support using aggressive and embarrassing ways. “Sam, I really reall—“

As if summoned, the entrance to the coffee shop opens, letting in a blast of cold air and a grumpy Natasha Romanov.

“Speak of the devil,” Sam says, delighted, and starts waving her over. “Natasha!”

“You guys suck,” Natasha tells them once she’s within earshot.

“We were dying of hypothermia,” Steve says, wiggling his recently thawed fingers at her.

“ _Americans_.” The judgement on her tone could probably be heard all the way back to George Washington’s era.

“You want coffee or tea?” Sam asks, grinning.

“Neither,” Natasha Romanov says, rolling her eyes. There was a small smile on her face, though, so Steve figures she’s not really pissed. “I want vodka.”

“You don’t get drunk,” Steve points out.

“This is Russia,” Natasha says dismissively, as if that explains everything. Which. Point. She turns to the counter and then does a double take. She blinks, tilting her head curiously. “James?”

 

Wait. What.

 

The barista – _James,_ Steve mouths behind Natasha— jolts and looks up from where he’s ringing up Steve’s order. There’s a split second of confusion before he breaks into a wide smile. “Natalia!”

He closes the cashier drawer carefully, puts the coffee down carefully and, to the utter bafflement of both Sam and Steve, proceeds to engage Natasha in rapid, animated conversation.

“Wait wait wait,” Steve says slowly, holding up a hand. “You know each other? No, of course you do, you guys are _talking_ –okay.” Steve looks between the two of them. Natasha had her eyebrows raised. James was looking at him, a look of anticipation on his face. Behind them, Sam is sporting a look of dawning realization. “He speaks English?” Steve’s eyes were huge and basically mortified when he turns to Natasha, deliberately keeping his eyes on her because he _cannot_ look at her friend right now.

“What?” Natasha shoots them a small confused frown, which quickly morphs into a grimace. “Good god, where are my manners.” She shoots him an apologetic look. “Guys, this is James Buchanan Barnes. We’re under the same thesis advisor. James, these are my friends, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson—I’m missing something here.” Natasha squints at two of them, crossing her arms.

Steve was too busy wanting to sink into the floor to even _remember_ his manners.

“He knows English?” Sam asks the important question.

Natasha blinks. “Yes. He’s just visiting relatives, but he’s been living in the US since he was nine.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, oh my god,” Sam whispers, sliding a hand down his face. He dissolves into quiet laughter. “It _bleeds American.”_ Steve wants to _die_.

_Oh my god.  
_

James Buchanan Barnes shoots a bright smile in Sam’s direction before he leans over and drawls in perfect, unaccented English. “For the record, Steve Rogers, I think you ain’t so bad yourself.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Non-english words in this quick drabble were all taken from Google Translate, so if it's wrong... well. Whoops. (Psst. Imagine Steve is just really horrible at Russian and Bucky... Bucky's American (TM), yeah?)
> 
> Here they are in order of appearance:
> 
> [1] Ahh, a tourist!
> 
> [2] American?
> 
> [3] American tourist
> 
> [4] Sorry
> 
> [5] So! Coffee, yes?
> 
> Welp, that's it. Hope you guys liked it!


End file.
